


Can You Hear My Heart Beat?

by entirely_too_tall



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, in which the symbolism gets very heavy handed, inspired by True Events TM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 12:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11851314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entirely_too_tall/pseuds/entirely_too_tall
Summary: Ransom doesn't know what he wants to specialize in med school, and Tater helps him figure it out.





	Can You Hear My Heart Beat?

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the opening line from Born To Make History, the opening theme to Yuri On Ice.
> 
> Inspired by [this story by Andrea Gibson](http://prayforjustice11.tumblr.com/post/115913059603/so-i-was-hanging-out-with-this-girl-i-liked-one).
> 
> Check Please and its characters belong to Ngozi, I am only expanding upon it for our collective non-commercial pleasure.

“But what am I going to even specialize in, you know? If I do end up becoming a doctor, and I like bio, I like helping people, I think doctors are great, but I don’t wanna just be some doctor in a clinic giving out prescriptions to codeine. Do I do oncology? Do I do internal medicine? Do I do fucking neurosurgery?” Ransom is gesturing wildly with one hand, his coffee in the other hand sloshing around dangerously, threatening to spill and stain the new green couch bought to match the one in the Haus.

 

“Don’t you have to go through like half of med school before you have to decide on a specialization? My cousin Deb didn’t decide on obgyn until I think a year or two before she finished med school?” Holster replies while reaching out to grab the mug from Ransom’s hand and set it on their coffee table. 

 

“Yea, but I wanna go in with a plan. If I go in not knowing what I want, I’m gonna fall apart questioning my decision. Bro, you know how I need to plan these things.” Ransom is now apparently also gesturing with his legs too, flailing about in his anxiety and coming dangerously close to knocking over the coffee again. Holster suspects Ransom has the unconscious desire to create some external chaos just to focus on that instead of dealing with his internal jumble of feelings.

 

“I know bro, but you have time. You still got the MCAT to take and schools to think about first, so get your applications done before you worry about what happens in med school.” Holster stands, picking up his and Ransom’s mugs to put them in the sink where they can be safe from Ransom, talking all the way there. “After you get in — and I know you’ll get in bro don’t give me that look, I know you’re giving me the look, I can feel it — after you get in, then you can worry about a specialization, howboudah?”

 

“First, the howboudah meme is racist and exploitative of black culture. Second, I might not get into med school. Because third, what am I gonna say in my personal statement about why I wanna be a doctor? I can’t just go, ‘oh my momma always wanted a doctor son’. Gotta find that passion, man. That field that I really wanna dive into, that will suck balls but will be worth it in the end to have made it through. If I don’t have that, they’re not gonna let me in!” Ransom, thankfully for Holster, has not gotten up to follow him and knock over the coffee mugs in the sink. Small victories for domestic cleanliness. Instead, Ransom is now sprawled over the back of the couch, torso hanging off the edge.

 

“I dunno, Deb just said there’s not enough female doctors as her main spiel. You could go with not enough black doctors.” Holster offers as he leans against the back of the couch next to Ransom, rubbing across his back. “You’ll get in either way. No way they’d turn down a 4.0 Sanwell grad, especially if he managed to do that while captaining a Div I hockey team.”

 

“Co-captain.”

 

“Still an accomplishment.”

 

“Mmmfmfmgghhhh!!” Ransom just buries his face into the back of the couch and lets out a muffled groan into the couch. It seems to help him enough, and he pushes himself up to slide back down onto the cushions and turn on the TV to Netflix. “I’m gonna drown out my anxiety with Princess Bride.”

 

“FUCK YES!” Holster all but yells his approval, and they settle down to a lazy Sunday morning of emotional distraction.

 

-\/-

 

“Bro, I don’t think I can survive this.” Ransom is clutching at his heart, and his face is a mix of lust and panic, which is not something Holster though was possible until now. 

 

“Well, we could just go home right now, save you from your imminent cardiac arrest." Hoslter is honestly a little annoyed by Ransom’s fannish behaviour. They’re sitting right behind the Falconers’ home bench for a pre-season showcase game, courtesy of Jack, and Ransom is not handling the proximity to Tater well. 

 

It was funny during Keagster, when Ransom had hid in their attic for the whole duration, being unable to face his idol. It was funny during graduation, when Tater had tagged along with Jack to come to their graduation and Ransom spent it hiding from Tater’s line of sight behind Holster. It was funny when Tater insisted on slinging his arm around each and every SMH member in attendance to take a selfie, and Ransom’s knees nearly turned to jelly at the contact. He had wobbled into Tater’s side, only to be held on tighter and given a worried smile. Everyone chirped Ransom for weeks on the group chat.

 

Right now, though, it bordered on inappropriate. 

 

“Hush, both of you. Y’all stop arguing and enjoy the game. Jack invited us up to watch the game and y’all should be on your best behaviour for him.” Bitty scolds.

 

“But Bitty, he keeps winking at us!” Ransom defends himself, somewhat making a halfway-decent point. Tater _has_ been sending them eyes and winks and grins, which Bitty knows is for him because Tater has been incessant with his pleading for more blueberry jam, or cobbler, or pie, or anything Bitty makes really. The man is a millionare and still has no shame in begging, honestly.

 

Still, being that Ransom is sitting next to Bitty, he also gets the full brunt of the attention thrown in their direction. He feels like he could vibrate so fast his atoms would fall out all at once and he’d dissolve into the air right there. That would be bad, though. All the hydrogen atoms and oxygen atoms would recombine in a violent exothermic explosion and kill everyone around him and then Ransom would be directly responsible for the deaths of his friends, all the Falconers, maybe their families too, not to mention the damage to property, the stain on the brand, the destruction of the local sports tourism economy —

 

“Hey, Ransy, bro, breathe with me, you’re not going to catch fire —” “explode” “— or explode, none of us are going to be hurt. Breathe in, breath out, that’s right.” 

 

Ransom is eternally grateful to have Holster by his side, who has become so used to his anxiety spirals and patterns of thought that Holster can guess at what he’s overthinking and pull him out before he’s sunken too deep. It’s usually enough to keep him from going coral reef, and they know that it’s only when he’s cramming for exams that he’ll keep spiralling regardless so they power through those instead and hope to land safely on the other side. If Ransom was brave enough to admit it, it’s also a reason why he dithered on med school, not knowing if he can handle another 6 plus years of vastly increased pressure, without Holster.

 

“Ok whooh I’m ok, thanks Holtzy. I’m good now.” Ransom has his head bowed, while Holster and Bitty flanking his sides both rub his back. “Maybe I need to head out and cool off, buy some lemonade.”

 

“You think you can make it for the rest of the game? There’s maybe 3 minutes left on the clock. Don’t wanna lose you in the crowd once the game ends. We’re still supposed to meet Jack in the locker room,” Bitty asks gently. “Or we could just meet at the restaurant instead if that’s better for you?” He gives them an out, and as grateful as Ransom is for the offer, he needs to get used to this level of stardom casually present in his peripheral life now that Jack is the A on the Falcs. 

 

“No, no. I can do this. I, am a man!” Ransom gestures, holding up his right fist as if grasping an invisible pen upright. 

 

“Bruh, Spongebob quotes are so versatile.” Holster apparently sees something in Ransom’s gesture, but Bitty is completely lost and lets them enter their usual enthusiastic brospeak while he returns his attention to the game. 

 

Neither side is taking it too seriously, and the double shutout (an overly generous term for tied at nothing) at the end leading to an unspectacular shootout makes for a pleasantly low-energy crowd that’s not too rowdy. That should help Ransom’s nerves, and as they shuffle their way back into the locker rooms, Ransom does indeed seem calmer, drawn into a subdued but not dispassionate discussion to the best Spongebob quote. The two currently being pondered are “Did you set it to Wumbo?” and “It was Big! Hairy! and Pink!”, and Bitty cannot for the life of him understand any of it. He’s not sure if he wants to.

 

They enter the locker room to a flurry of greetings for Bitty, who basks in the attention and has half of the team wrapped around his pinky, it seems to Holster. They’re all asking how he’s been, how he’s gearing up to be Captain for SMH, whether he’s going to be able to keep up his cooking (and grades) with the added responsibility. Jack is nowhere to be seen, so Holster and Ransom both just linger around awkwardly in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous and also not freak out at their close proximity to the Falconers in various degrees of nudity. 

 

After a while, somebody notices them, and Bitty (“Lord, where are my manners!”) introduces both of them to everyone in the locker room like he was the ambassador of the SMH to the Falconers. Turns out that most of the Falconers are pretty cool, and ask Ransom and Holster about their experience as D-men, their careers, their aspirations. Ransom doesn't even notice Tater isn’t in the room, too absorbed by Snowy’s swear-laden retelling of the Parson-Rushing-The-Net Incident.

 

Suddenly, a voice booms from behind them, “B, you’re here! And you brought Randy and Adam!” The small crowd turns to see Tater marching in, already stripping his jersey and pads off and littering them across the room while walking towards them, Jack trailing behind. 

 

“Finally back from press, eh? How’d it go without me for once?” Marty jibes at them, to which Jack mumbles a reply in French while Tater waves off with a “not as fun without you” without slowing his pace. He gets various admonishing yells of “pick up your junk Tater jeez!”, which he ignores in his dash to sweep Bitty off his feet into a bear hug. 

 

“Gah! Tater! You’re sweaty and stinkin’ me up! Put me down right this instant or no more pies for you, mister.” Bitty squawks at Tater until he relents and sets Bitty down. Only then does he notice Ransom and Holster and turns to face them, bare chested and all.

 

“Randy!” Tater grins out at Holster, while continuing to strip the rest of his clothes right there in front of them both.

 

“Um, hi?” Holster replies, slightly confused at the name.

 

“Nice to see you again!” Tater says, unaware of anything amiss. He turns to Ransom with the same cheerful smile, “Adam, you’re here! Not running away again, ya?”

 

Ransom, returning to his state of Fanboy upon seeing Tater undress before him, lets out a shrill “eep!” and freezes on the spot. Fortunately, Tater seems to take a different direction with Ransom’s reaction, and rubs a hand on his chest.

 

“Sorry, must be very surprising to have big ugly scar on chest. It’s okay, I got it when very small baby, don’t remember hurt at all,” Tater explains.

 

Neither Ransom nor Holster was paying enough attention to notice the large vertical scar running down Tater’s entire sternum, but now that it had been pointed out to them, they see it clearly. It really is ugly, the paler scarring a jagged line starkly dividing the hard planes of Tater’s pecs and abs, more densely knotted and a faded angry pink right around the heart.

 

Apparently all the Falconers and Bitty have went through the same process with Tater, and have lost interest and dispersed back to their own stalls or the showers, leaving Ransom and Holster staring at Tater.

 

Holster breaks the silence first. “Bro, you got that as a baby? What happened? You don’t need to tell us if you’re not comfortable or anything —”

 

“No, no. It’s not accident or mafia stabbing or anything.” Tater supplies, though it doesn’t seem to help, as Holster’s eyes bulge wide.

 

“MAFIA STABBING?!” Holster yells. “Is that a thing that actually happens? To babies?!”

 

“I’m not sure. Just guess.” Tater answers with a nonchalant shrug, which doesn’t appease Holster one bit. Before he can interject again, Tater pushes past Ransom and Holster to sit at his stall behind them and adds, “Is surgery. Three surgeries, actually. Was born with Тетра́да Фалло́. Surgery is for repair, but leave big ugly scars, people always shocked to see first time.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Both Holster and Tater glance over to Ransom, who has made his first sound since the initial squeal. 

 

“I’ve never seen it,” Ransom says softly, a hand reaching out to touch but catching himself quickly and drawing it back, afraid to overstep. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone with it. We study about it, of course, in pre-med, but it’s all just on paper.”

 

Holster and Tater are quiet, observing Ransom working through his revelatory moment. 

 

“I just… It’s always been some abstract concept of ‘oh, somewhere out there, people sometimes are born with heart defects’. But it’s all real, so real.” Ransom says it while staring at the scar, rough and ridged, drawing out the visible evidence of injury inflicted upon Tater’s body by doctors, so that they could heal the invisible but deadlier impairment inflicted by Tater’s own body upon itself.

 

“Well, like I said, is not so bad. I not remember any of it, too small. All I have is scar and reminders to see doctor every 6 months.” Tater says as he shucks off his skates and breaks the spell held over Ransom. 

 

“Do you have problems with it? What is it that you have?” Ransom asks, his voice full of concern.

 

“Тетра́да Фалло́.” Tater supplies, as he further rids himself of his pants.

 

“Tetrada Fallo, Tetrada Fallo… Tetralogy of Fallot?” Ransom is too deeply in thought, trying to recall what exactly the Tetralogy of Fallot is a tetralogy of to notice Tater now completely naked in front of him.

 

Tater only shrugs at the English version Ransom provides. “Is maybe? No idea. I say my Russian words to doctor here and he understand, is good enough. Surgeries fix me already, so I only need to check to make sure not start leaking again, but so far so good. Doctors say fixed me too well, now heart too strong and need to play rough sport and beat people up!” Tater laughs at that, and it does seem remarkable to Ransom that someone born with a serious and frequently fatal heart defect could go on to be one of the strongest Defencemen in the NHL Atlantic Division.

 

“Anyway, I need to go shower now, you two come by again. Will have better time, I show you around, Adam.” Tater says this to Ransom, and Holster senses that the invitation isn’t necessarily extended to him.

 

“Actually, _I’m_ Adam, or well, Holster. _He’s_ Ransom.” Holster says pointing to himself and Ransom, clearing up their names. If this is going where he thinks it’s going, at least he’s going to get Tater to call them by their right names.

 

“Oh! Sorry, I switched you two around. You two always mentioned together, B telling me funny stories. I’m sorry.”

 

“N-no worries. My name is Justin Oluransi, but my nickname is Ransom.”

 

“Oluransi? Sounds like Olyechka.” Tater brightens up at this revelation.

 

“Olyechka?” Ransom repeats a little dumbly.

 

“Olyechka. Is Russian nickname! Fits you. Alright, Olyechka, come back with Adam and I give you tour,” Tater says, clapping a hand on Ransom’s shoulder and giving Ransom a wink as he walks past them heading towards the showers.

 

“But why do I get to be Adam and not a Russian nickname too?” Hoslter whines, to which Tater only throws back his head and laughs.

 

-| |-

 

“Bro, where are you, we’re gonna be late!” Ransom asks, phone to his ear outside the doors to the Falconers’ arena.

 

“Are you there? It’s already late.” Holster asks in lieu of a reply.

 

“Yea I’m here, I’ve been here waiting for you for the past 15 minutes! We’re pushing past reasonably late into rude-late now, you better haul ass over here.” Ransom is frustrated at how late Holster is making him, and he doesn’t want Tater to think badly of them.

 

“Good, good you’re there already. Right, well. I’m gonna bail, so have fun on your date with Tater!” Holster says with too much cheer in his tone.

 

“You’re _what_? You’re ditching me?” Ransom is furious. So much for bros being there for each other. Holster _knows_ how much Ransom needs him to successfully function around Tater.

 

“Not ditching, that’s such a bad word. I’m performing my bro/wingman duties in the most effective way possible, i.e. not being a third wheel on your first date with Tater.” Holster explains, which does not appease Ransom one bit.

 

“It’s not a date!” Ransom exclaims, throwing his free hand up in absolute frustration.

 

“Bruh, Tater was mad flirting with you that time when he asked us to come back for a tour. He deflected your fanboy scream by talking about his scar, and used a medical condition to talk to a pre-med boy he winked at and gave a nickname to. I’m surprised he didn’t leave his number before he went to the showers.” Holster rattles off the reasons, all of which Ransom doesn’t want to acknowledge, because his celebrity crush _can’t_ have been flirting with him. He won’t be able to handle that.

 

“Just tell Tater I got caught up in work or something. Go nab your boy.” Holster hangs up immediately after that, leaving Ransom slightly dazed. With nothing left holding him back except a sudden bout of nerves, he pushes through the doors into the arena and heads to reception to be led to wherever Tater is waiting for him.

 

Soon enough, Ransom is brought before Tater waiting in the stands, and who sees him and immediately leaps to his feet and bounds over like an overexcited labrador. 

 

“Hey Tater. Sorry I’m late.” Ransom apologizes, but Tater waves it off immediately.

 

“No problem! As long as you’re here. Where is Adam?”

 

“He… uh… couldn’t make it. Work.” Ransom provides lamely, which Tater doesn’t look into to deeply.

 

“Ok, no worries! I’ll bring your around, come with me!” Tater happily turns to lead Ransom deeper into the arena, and Ransom can only follow behind, hoping that Holster is both extremely wrong and extremely right.

 

Ransom is brought through the arena and shown all the places that Tater pointed out in the Falcs TV video he did, Tater chattering away all the fun facts he had to learn to be allowed to be video host for that episode. He points out the picture hallway showing all the awards and prizes the Falcs have received over the years, the nook where everyone eats at, the waiting and meeting rooms for tape and play review, all the while smiling and walking too close and slinging his arm around Ransom, and Ransom feels like he’s going to burst into flames. His skin tingles at Tater’s contact, zapping up his nerves and short circuiting his brain into only nodding and providing monosyllabic grunts to Tater’s stream of words.

 

They have made their way into the trainers room, and Ransom notices in one of the shelves a sphygmomanometer and a stethoscope. It strikes him as very old-school, since right next to it is an electronic blood pressure gauge. Tater notices Ransom has his eye caught by it, and pushes Ransom towards the trainer’s table to sit, and flashing a grin at Ransom, goes over to bring the sphygmomanometer and stethoscope to the table.

 

Catching on to what Tater wants to do, but unsure what role he’s supposed to play, Ransom sits on the table and watches as Tater carefully sets the sphygmomanometer down on the table next to him.

 

“B tells me you are becoming doctor, ya? Have you used these already?” Tater asks, holding out the stethoscope. 

 

Ransom shakes his head, “No, not yet. I’m still not in med school, and we don’t get stethoscopes until our white coat ceremony.”

 

“Well, today your lucky day, Olyechka!” Tater plugs the stethoscope into his ears and then places his large warm hands on Ransom’s chest, moving the bell around searching for Ransom’s heart. The cold metal of the bell is a shock at first contact, but Tater’s hands are even more of a focal point to Ransom's attention, who is is having quite a Moment. His crush is literally rubbing his hands all over his chest in order to find his heart, and not only is the symbolism too heavy, he’s also extremely aware of his heart rabbitting away faster and faster, which Tater is sure to hear and discover how he’s actually a huge dweeb with a crush the size of the sun.

 

Tater finds Ransom’s heart, and smiles so wide that Ransom is sure he’s been caught. Tater doesn’t say anything, just pulls Ransom’s hand up to curl around the bell. Once Ransom has the bell held in place, Tater extracts his hands to move the earpieces from his ears to Ransom’s, and instead of letting go, lets his hands hover over the tubes.

 

Ransom hears it, his heartbeat, and it feels surreal. The thumping sounds, deep ba-dump ba-dumps, reverberate into his head in time to his heart, which, of course it does, but it’s never this loud and clear and _close_. It feels intensely intimate, very unlike when he feels his heartbeat pounding against his chest or throbbing in his head during an anxiety attack. Instead, this feels soothing, even though he’s still worked up from the close contact with Tater’s hands. 

 

Ransom closes he eyes, and listens to himself be alive. He can even hear his breathing through the stethoscope, a deep rumbling sound not unlike a windy day. He feels himself calm down, and he keeps his eyes closed for a while, letting the music of his own body wash over him.

 

When he finally opens his eyes, Tater is watching him with his own soft hazel orbs, and Ransom can hear it, the moment his heart catches up and starts beating harder and faster for his crush. It embarrasses him and he pulls the earpieces out, but Tater’s hands are still on the tubes, and he pushes the tube behind such that the stethoscope hangs from Ransom’s neck.

 

Tater pulls back his arms and begins to roll up the sleeve on his left, while nodding towards the sphygmomanometer, asking Ransom, “You know how that works?”

 

“No. I’ve only ever seen the electronic ones being used. Didn’t know they still used these anymore.” Ransom replies.

 

“They don’t. I’m one who bring in, because I like better. When I was small, doctor let me listen to heart, but electronic one can’t do that. So I always insist want to use manual pump and stetoscope. This one I buy and bring in myself, teach everyone to use. Some people like, some people don’t.” Tater says, which explains the presence of these equipment. “Do you like it?” Tater adds on, his earnest eyes boring deep into Ransom.

 

“Y-yeah, I do. I like it a lot,” Ransom stutters out, caught a little bit off guard with the question. It sounded a lot more than just about the equipment, but he doesn’t want to put too much hope into the situation. 

 

Tater wraps the cuff around his left bicep and retrieves the stethoscope from around Ransom’s neck to position them in his ears, and then places the bell in the crook of his elbow. As he pumps up the cuff, he checks around for the pulse, and once satisfied, motions for Ransom to hold the bell in place. 

 

He pulls the stethoscope out and positions them back into Ransom’s ears, before continuing to pump the cuff again with his right hand, pumping again until the cuff inflates completely. Ransom hears the pulse slowly disappear, and frowns, but Tater places his hand over Ransom’s to stop him from moving the bell around.

 

“The sound disappear, right?” Tater asks, and Ransom nods. “Good, is supposed to go away, meaning no blood flow.”

 

“So now you see the meter?” Tater points at the sphygmomanometer, with the mercury all the way up at 220. “It’s at 220 now, more than my blood pressure, so no blood go through and hear no sound.” 

 

“I will slowly release pressure, and when you start to hear sound again, that is systola. After that, sound will slowly disappear, and the moment no more sound again, is diastola.” Tater instructs, eyes flicking between Ransom and the meter. “Ready?”

 

Ransom stays silent, all too aware of his fingers brushing against Tater’s arm. He only nods, determined to make the most of this impromptu lesson in medical equipment. 

 

Tater releases the pressure slowly, the soft hissing sound the only sound in the room audible to Ransom, their breathing too soft to pass through the earpieces occluding his ears. Soon enough, he hears the first faint ba-dump, and notes the systolic blood pressure at 115. Tater slows the pressure release, letting his pulse be heard clearly through the stethoscope, and it takes a whole 2 minutes before Ransom hears the pulse start to grow faint. Finally, at 76, the pulse disappears, and Ransom flicks his eyes up to Tater. 

 

Getting the signal, Tater lets the pressure leak out quickly, but does not bother to remove the cuff or move his arm. “What is pressure?” he asks.

 

“115 over 76. They’re good numbers.” Ransom reports, but his gaze is captured by Tater, who is staring intently at him. 

 

Tater places his right hand over Ransom’s on the bell on his left arm, and pulls it towards his chest, towards his heart, all without pulling his gaze away from Ransom. He knows where his heart is, has used the stethoscope probably thousands of times over the years, and knows where to position his hand so that the bell is over his own heart. 

 

“Can you hear it?” Tater asks Ransom. 

 

“Yeah.” Ransom replies. Tater’s heart is drumming up a steady beat in his ears, just like the pulse on his arm, but the sound is deeper, the two heartbeat sounds loud and clear, surrounding his mind.

 

“I want you to hear it, the moment it speeds up.” Tater is leaning forward, closer to Ransom’s face.

 

“Speed up for what?” Ransom doesn’t pull back, but he doesn’t push forward either, scared he’s reading this wrong.

 

“For this,” Tater whispers, and he closes the distance between their lips, and Ransom’s mouth responds on its own accord without his conscious direction. He kisses back, a deep long kiss that’s chaste but without hesitation. 

 

In his ears, however, he can hear it, Tater’s heartbeat accelerating the moment their lips met. It races with a heavy gallop, and Ransom can feel his own heart rushing to keep pace, running together in this derby they’ve created through the joining of their lips, their bodies, their very lives. 

 

Tater is the first to pull back, but his hands over Ransom’s stay clasped together over his chest. “Do you want to have dinner with me?” he asks, open and exposed, heartbeat pounding in Ransom’s ears.

 

“Yeah, yeah I’d love to.” Ransom answers with a smile, one which Tater matches.

 

-/\\-

 

“Yo, bro! How’d your date go? You guys totally went to dinner together, given how late it is.” Holster asks the moment Ransom returns to their apartment.

 

With a wistful smile on his face as he recalls his night, Ransom simply replies, “I think I might go for cardiology."

**Author's Note:**

> You will notice that Tater says stetoscope, systola, and diastola. Those are the Russian pronunciations for the same English words for stethoscope, systole, and diastole. Many medical terms are the same across both languages, which is why Tater, being knowledgeable about his medical condition in Russian, doesn’t need to learn new words in English.
> 
> Thank you for reading. Find me on [tumblr](http://ohjustletmewriteinpeace.tumblr.com).


End file.
